


Like A Handprint On My Heart

by karatam



Category: Glee
Genre: F/F
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-07-11
Updated: 2011-07-11
Packaged: 2017-10-21 06:23:48
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,413
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/221918
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/karatam/pseuds/karatam
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Brittany has always been able to calm Santana down, she just didn't realize exactly what that meant for them.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Like A Handprint On My Heart

**Author's Note:**

> This is a finale-fix, but not really.

Brittany leans forward and to the side, straining against her seatbelt to peer out the little window down at the rapidly shrinking ground. It’s the first time almost all of the Glee club has ever been on a plane and everyone is handling it differently.

Kurt is bouncing in his seat while pouring over a Sky Mall magazine with Mercedes and Rachel. Quinn is leaning back in her chair with her earphones in, staring out the window with her eyebrows slightly furrowed. Finn tries to get his knees to fit in the too small space for his legs and Brittany giggles as she watches the look on Tina’s face as knees dig through the seat and into her back. Mike catches Brittany’s eye and grins at her before grimacing as Tina digs her nails into his arm. Puck is trying to convince Lauren to join the mile high club but she’s just glaring at him before turning back to her iPod. Sam digs through his bag and pulls out a stack of comic books to show to Artie. Brittany likes looking at his comic books, they have lots of bright colours. 

And then there’s Santana, sitting right next to her. She’s looking straight ahead with her fingers digging into the armrests. Brittany inspects her face and notices that Santana is clenching her jaw tightly. Brittany used to clench her teeth and grind them but then Dr Carl gave her a little plastic thing to wear at night. She swallowed it twice.

Brittany tilts her head and watches Santana breathe in and out rapidly. Reaching out a hand, Brittany runs her index finger across Santana’s left eyebrow and then her right and then down the bridge of her nose, pausing at the tiny bump from when Santana broke her nose playing Frisbee when they were twelve. She repeats the motion several times, sometimes wandering to brush her finger against soft eyelashes or dipping down to linger on a full lower lip.

After several minutes, Santana reaches up to capture Brittany’s roving hand, lacing their fingers together and bringing them to rest in her lap. Her breathing is even now, inhales and exhales in time with Brittany’s.

“You don’t like flying, do you?”

Santana grimaces for a second, glancing out the window before jerking her eyes to Brittany’s face. “I didn’t know. We haven’t ever been on a plane, Brit.”

Brittany smiles. “I fly in my dreams every night and I never feel scared.” She leans her head forward to rest their foreheads together. “You’re always with me, and you’re never scared either, so don’t worry.”

Dark eyes go soft in that way Brittany recognizes. It means  _I like you_  and  _thank you_  and  _you’re adorable_. Sometimes it means _I love you_. Brittany thinks it means all four right now. She shifts to lay her head on Santana’s shoulder, looking down at their intertwined hands.

“Lift the finger I point at.” They played this game when they were younger and Santana always won.

“That’s your finger, Brit.”

“Oh. Well, you can lift it anyways.”

Santana lets out a huff of laughter as she uses her other hand to lift Brittany’s finger.

Brittany looks up at her and Santana doesn’t seem scared anymore.

/ / 

Basically, they are all ready to kill each other.

After two and a half hours locked in a hotel room with only rhyming dictionaries and each other for company, they were starting to go a little stir crazy.

Brittany sits curled up in a chair by the window and stares out, spinning her glass in her right hand. Circles of various sizes are traced on her notebook, from every circular object in the room. She used Puck’s head because it was the easiest to trace since he’s mostly shaved. She looks back into the hotel room and her eyes focus on Santana sitting on the bed. Santana is rubbing her temple with her hand and that vein in her jaw is jumping.

That can only mean one thing: Santana’s temper is about to snap. They have maybe ten minutes before some incredibly creative expletives start spewing out of that pretty mouth.

Looking down at her cup, inspiration hits.

She knows  _exactly_ how to make Santana laugh, even if it might make everyone else think she’s a little crazier than they previously thought. 

/ / 

The lone clock in the room ticks as seconds, minutes, hours go by. The room is silent except for soft breathing and that ticking.

Brittany wants to sleep, but something feels off. Santana is beside her, curled up and facing away. She is also pretending to be asleep.

Propping herself up on one elbow, Brittany leans over Santana’s body and blows a puff of air into Santana’s ear, smiling in satisfaction when Santana jerks her body around, a scowl on her face.

“What?” Her voice is scratchy in the way it always is when she’s nervous or upset. Brittany has been hearing it more and more lately.

“Why aren’t you asleep?”

“Because you just woke me up.”

“I meant before. Why weren’t you asleep before?”

“I don’t know. Why weren’t you asleep?”

“Because I can never go to sleep when you’re upset.” Brittany sees the shadows of Santana’s face turn away from her and toward the open window, catching flashes of the headlights of passing cars.

“I’m not upset.” There is a sullenness to her voice that makes Brittany want to roll her eyes.

She pushes up off the fold out couch and slips her feet into her shoes, not bothering with the laces. She stands and turns around to hold out a hand to Santana. “Come on.”

Santana stares at her outstretched hand for a long moment before slipping her own into Brittany’s grasp. “Where are we going?”

“You’ll see.”

They open and close the door carefully, slowing its swing with their palms, and then pause outside to make sure no one woke up. Brittany links their pinkies and leads them down the hallway, pausing at each door to read the label. When she finally finds the one she was looking for, she jerks it open quickly before Santana can see what was written on the door.

Stairs lead upward and Santana is muttering under her breath by the time they make it up the seven flights. “This better be good, Brittany Susan Pierce.”

“Don’t try to scare me by using my full name, Santana Maria Lopez. It only works when my mom does it.” She stops and lays her hand on the door in front of her. “You ready?”

Santana appears to try not to roll her eyes and is nearly successful. “Yes.”

Brittany twists the doorknob and pushes the door open. The glittering lights of the city that never sleeps greet them as they step out onto the roof. That distinctive skyline breaks the matte black of the night sky with twinkling whites, blues, reds, yellows and greens. Santana sucks in a quick breath as she takes another step forward to the low wall circling the roof.

They stand there, unmoving for a long time, Santana watching the city, Brittany watching Santana.

“I’m scared.” Santana’s voice isn’t wavering. It isn’t weak or trembling. It’s matter of fact. “I’m scared that I’ll mess up the beginning of our final song on the biggest stage in the country. I’m scared that I’ll let everybody down.”

Brittany steps up behind Santana and slips her arms around Santana’s waist, clasping their hands together low over Santana’s stomach. “At Sectionals, you sang ‘Valerie’ without any stage fright. Why now?”

Santana sighs. “Because Sectionals was easy. We were shoe-ins and it wasn’t so fucking close. Now, any mistake could mean we lose.” She shrugs, the movement causing Brittany’s head to move up and down. 

“Well, I believe in you. You have the prettiest voice I have ever heard, and that’s not just the best friend in me speaking. I’m being objectionable.”

“Objective.” And when Santana speaks, Brittany can hear the smile in her voice and can feel it where their cheeks press together. “Thanks, Brit.”

“No problem.” She pauses and lets a small grin grow on her lips, though Santana can’t see her face. “I can find you a lucky comb if you want.” The laughter that bursts out of Santana makes Brittany feel warm inside, like she’s sitting in front of a roaring fire after coming in from the cold.

They stand there until the first warm hints of dawn start appearing on the horizon. They watch a new day begin in New York City, ready to face the challenges ahead.

/ / 

Santana is still muttering in Spanish under her breath when Brittany finally finds her. Some of her dark hair has slipped loose of her ponytail and is hanging down around her face. She reaches up to flick it out of her eyes but it just stubbornly falls right back into her gaze again. It just makes her swear louder.

“Spanish isn’t even your first language,” Brittany observes, leaning her shoulder against the doorway and smirking when Santana whips her head around. “Your parents didn’t speak Spanish to you until you were nine because they wanted your English to be perfect.”

The scowl on Santana’s face is kind of ruined by that lock of hair dangling by her nose, moving with every exhale. “Swearing sounds better in Spanish. Plus, I can call the Dwarf names that no one even understands.” She turns away toward the window, staring out at the New York skyline.

“Mr. Schue  _teaches_ Spanish, San.”

“So?”

Brittany smiles and rolls her eyes a little bit. “That means he can speak Spanish too, duh.”

“Whatever.”

They stand there for a long moment, Santana with her back to Brittany, staring out the window. Brittany straightens and walks across the room to stand beside Santana, bumping their shoulders together lightly, but she stays silent.

“How could she have done that?” Santana is the first one to break.

“How could who do what?” Brittany knows exactly what Santana’s asking, but Santana needs to say it, needs to get it out of her system.

“How could she have just let him kiss her right on stage, knowing that it could cost us a place at the finals? She wants that more than any of us. How could she have done that?” Her voice is incredulous, her mind uncomprehending. Santana brings up her hand to rub at her temples.

Brittany stares out the window, gathering her thoughts. She wasn’t mad, maybe a little disappointed that they missed out, but not mad. She got to spend a couple days in New York with all of her friends. She got to sing and dance at Nationals and she’ll get to do it all again next year. Definitely not mad.

“What would you have done?” Brittany asks.

Santana tilts her head to look at Brittany, one eyebrow raised in silent question.

“What would you have done if I had kissed you at the end of a love song I wrote just for you?” Brittany stares right at Santana when she speaks, not letting herself even blink.

Her mouth drops open, but no sound comes out and she closes it again. Her brows draw together and her eyes go wistful. Even her hands relax the grip they have on the window ledge. She finally closes her eyes and lets out a long breath.

Brittany watches Santana, watches every minute reaction in her face and body. She has always been able to read Santana and now is no exception. “Would you have pushed me away because that kiss could lose us Nationals?”

Santana keeps her eyes closed, but whispers, “No.” Her chin drops to rest on her chest and her shoulders slump.

“Love makes people do crazy, stupid things.” Brittany reaches out a hand to tilt Santana’s head up. Their eyes meet and Santana’s look so sad it makes Brittany’s chest tighten.

They can’t kiss, not now, not with things between them the way they are. But, oh, how Brittany wants to kiss her; because that little wrinkle between Santana’s eyebrows means she’s trying not to cry, holding back the tears that would make her look weak; because Santana’s hands are shaking just the slightest bit; because Brittany will always want to kiss Santana, no matter what the situation.

But they can’t, so Brittany just moves her left hand over to cover Santana’s while her right stays at Santana’s face, her thumb rubbing slowly along Santana’s jawline.

Sniffing once, then twice, Santana says in a choked voice, “Crazy and stupid, huh?”

Brittany smiles and squeezes Santana’s hand. “That’s us.”

Santana lets out a breath of muted laughter and looks back toward the window. “That’s us.”

And then, because they’re still  _Brittany and Santana_ , always have been and always will be, Brittany can’t help herself. She leans forward and presses a gentle kiss to Santana’s temple, closing her eyes and pausing when her lips touch skin. Santana sighs and the rigid line of her spine relaxes, so Brittany pulls away, intertwining their fingers as she does so.

“You still mad?”

“I’m still me, so of course I’m mad, but I’m not about to murder Rachel anymore, so that’s an improvement.” Brittany giggles at Santana’s response, bringing a smile to Santana’s face. “Thanks, Brittany.”

“Always.”

/ / 

Blue.

No, green. Or maybe yellow?

“Brittany?”

She nearly drops the seven bottles of nail polish (also pink, sparkles, glow in the dark and rainbow – one for nearly every finger) as she spins around to see Rachel standing in front of her. Brittany lets her eyes wander for a second to take in the plaid skirt (cute) and the sweater with a cow on it (slightly less cute; also, it’s nearly summer) and nearly misses what Rachel says next.

“I just wanted to thank you for ensuring my survival earlier this week. I know it must have taken your impressive upper body strength to keep Santana from mauling my face off – which I am glad she did not as it would have assuredly ruined the high chance I have of making it big on Broadway.”

Brittany just shrugs. “It wasn’t that hard. It’s easy to calm her down if you know how.”

Rachel pauses as she opens her mouth to say something and closes it again. She watches Brittany for a few seconds, her eyebrows drawing together. “Can anyone else calm her down when she’s that angry?” Rachel finally asks.

Thinking for a moment, Brittany replies, “I don’t think so. Just me.”

“Right.” Rachel nods, but Brittany hadn’t asked a question. “And how exactly  _did_ you calm her down, Brittany?” Well, there’s a question.

“Well, she was mad at you for kissing Finn back while onstage, like, really mad. So I just asked her what she would have done if I had kissed her. You know, putting yourself in someone else’s pants.” Brittany frowns when Rachel’s jaw drops a little bit. “What?”

“How exactly would you characterize your ongoing relationship with Santana?” After a beat of silence, Rachel rephrases. “Are you and Santana dating?”

Brittany laughs, but there’s an almost brittle sound to it. “No, we’re just best friends.”

Rachel reaches out and takes Brittany’s hand, avoiding the one thumbnail that’s still wet with rainbow nail polish. Her eyes are wide and sincere and they somehow make Brittany feel worried, like something bad is about to happen. “Brittany, I’m sure you and Santana are many,  _many_ things – things I don’t want to know about – but you are definitely not  _just_ best friends.”

Her hand clenches Rachel’s smaller one tightly as her eyes widen. “She’s my best friend, I take care of her.” Brittany tries to sound sure and confident, but it mostly comes out uncertain and not a little breathy.

Rachel’s smile is soft and apologetic, like she can see the wheels in Brittany’s head spinning, rationalizing and explaining. “You two will work it out, I know you will.” Softer, so soft Brittany almost misses it, she whispers, “You two have to make it.” 

Then the smile is back, brighter than before. Brittany remains motionless as Rachel looks past her shoulder and down the hall. Rachel’s eyebrows twitch before she looks at Brittany again. “Santana’s coming down the hallway, but she hasn’t seen you yet. You want a moment to collect yourself?” 

“Collect myself from who?” Brittany wonders absently. Then she catches sight of long dark hair and her spine goes rigid for a moment before relaxing, because this is Santana. She  _knows_ Santana, she knows how to talk to Santana better than anyone. There’s nothing to be scared of. “I’m okay, Rachel. I promise.”

Rachel’s eyebrows draw together in worry and she says, “Okay, if you’re sure.”

“Thanks,” Brittany says, tucking her hair behind her ears.

Just before she can turn away, Rachel pipes up again. “Oh, by the way, did Santana really make a voodoo doll of me?”

Brittany just laughs and affectionately ruffles Rachel’s hair, ignoring her squawk of protest. “Bye, Rachel.”

With Rachel’s slightly offended laughter ringing in her ears, Brittany looks down the hallway to where Santana is standing at her locker, taking a deep breath as she thinks back.

When all of… _this_ began, Brittany had always been the one pushing. She pushed Santana to talk, she pushed Santana to wear that t-shirt, she pushed Santana to sing. She had to, because Santana wouldn’t have moved anywhere, otherwise. But eventually, Santana started pushing back,  _hard_. So hard that is actually hurt Brittany, right in that space under her ribs, the space that had always felt warm and content when Santana had been around.

So she had stopped pushing, had backed off a little. They needed room to breathe, just like how they had breaks in dance class to stretch and calm their heart rates. Brittany’s heart needed to stop racing all the time, because it was making her breathless.

At the time, Brittany thought she didn’t have a plan, but looking back on it now, she’s not so sure.

Because this is what she thought: maybe they’re not  _just_ best friends anymore (if Brittany’s being honest they haven’t been  _just_ best friends since that Thursday morning in grade seven when Brittany kissed Santana by the old swings), but Santana is still the best friend Brittany has had her entire life. Maybe there’s this big  _something_ in between them that Brittany likes to ignore and Santana likes to try and bury while studying it carefully. Maybe they’re soulmates, because Brittany can’t imagine a life without Santana and it hurts to try.

But they’re not ready. Not yet, but maybe next year, or when school starts up again, or sometime over the summer.

It’s quite clear to her now, clear as glass, what her plan has been all along. Santana is scared, holding onto her fear so hard it’s trapping her, standing still, but Brittany can calm Santana down like no one else can, like no one else can even attempt to. And that’s the key: calming Santana down lets her release that fear, and – hopefully – will let her see what’s right in front of her (not her locker; Brittany).

So she’ll take it slow, try not to push anymore. Instead, she’ll wait, patiently, with a smile or a hug or a handhold whenever Santana needs her. Because Santana will need her, she’s sure of it. This summer will not be the Glee club’s big gay summer (for real), but hopefully by the end, Santana will be calm and ready for that. With Brittany.

This sudden flash of realization takes only a few moments and causes Brittany to try and pat herself on the back, for an unknown plan well executed (even though hers is still alive, because Brittany didn’t like that plans had to be killed). Someone bumps into her from behind and propels her down the hall way as her feet catch up to the rest of her. She takes a deep breath as Santana goes to close her locker.

Brittany steps up behind Santana, getting a little further into her personal space than Santana would allow most people, but Brittany is Brittany. Santana’s eyes glance up and Brittany can see them soften in the way they always do when Santana looks at her. The smile is automatic, instinct.

“Hey.”

She sees the voodoo doll out of the corner of her eye and makes a mental email to tell Rachel about it later.

Best friends.

Brittany can do best friends. For now.


End file.
